


A Study in Deception

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Getting together (kind of), Guilt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: In the aftermath of Sherlock's suicide, Greg struggles to cope. Clearly, Something Has To Be Done.This is part of Greg Lestrade and the Adventure of the Alternative Lifestyle but it can be read as a stand alone story.





	A Study in Deception

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: We do not own Sherlock.
> 
> Something about Greg's reaction to Sherlock's return seemed off. His surprise, to us at least, was more akin to that of a man walking into a surprise birthday party than finding out that a friend was actually not dead. This was the result. 
> 
> This is chronologically first in the series, but written after The Adventure of the Two Holmeses and The Adventure of the Extended Family. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome :)

Rolling out of bed with a grunt at the sound of his front door opening, Greg Lestrade immediately regretted the eight pints he'd sunk the night before. Getting pissed enough that you barely knew your own name was fine at twenty, but not quite as excusable this close to fifty. However, needs must, and the suicide of a good friend within months of a painfully messy divorce and leaving his girls in the marital home definitely constituted a need, even if he was paying for it in triplicate now.

He staggered out of his bedroom - after checking that he was at least wearing underwear - and made it to the living room in time to see Mycroft Holmes walk in. “Good morning, Greg,” Mycroft said, sweeping Greg’s dishevelled state with vague amusement. “It certainly seems that you had an enjoyable evening, even if it wasn’t with me.”

Greg felt a distinct pang of guilt at that; the last Friday evening of each month had been reserved for dinner with Mycroft since about six months into his acquaintance with Sherlock, but he'd skipped last night’s without notice or even the pretence at an excuse. Initially, their dinners had been Mycroft’s way of letting Greg know that he was under surveillance and would face undesirable consequences if anything untoward happened to Sherlock on his watch. That had slowly changed, and by the time Greg had helped to get Sherlock clean - well, mostly clean - Mycroft was showing facets of his personality that were usually hidden beneath his posh suits and cold demeanour, and Greg counted him as a friend. The guilt at not turning up for dinner had, however, been far outweighed by guilt for his part in the events surrounding Sherlock’s suicide; hadn't been able to stomach sitting opposite Mycroft in the face of his guilt, and had fallen into a pub around the corner from home instead. “What’re you—”

“—What am I doing here? Shouldn’t that be obvious? It is my understanding that _friends_ often visit each other at home. Some even meet regularly for dinner.” Mycroft sat down and crossed his legs with an expectant look at Greg. “I’m no expert in such matters, but is a text message not the least expected when one is unable to honour a planned arrangement?”

“I, ah, about that…” Greg started, but really didn't have a decent response, so instead asked, “You want a drink?” and fled into the kitchen.

“Tea, please. I trust that you didn’t dispose of my Darjeeling when you decided to discontinue our friendship?”

Guilt surged again and, in combination with his hangover, it was enough to leave Greg feeling decidedly queasy. “’Course not,” he replied roughly, reaching for Mycroft’s tea. The fancy caddy looked so out of place in his kitchen that his eleven year old daughter thought it had been a prank Christmas gift, and he hadn't known quite how to explain that one of his closest friends was a complete snob who insisted on tea from Fortnum & Mason. The extortionate price had been worth it, though, if only for the expression of surprised delight when Mycroft had spotted it by the kettle.

Having not heard the other man move, Greg jumped when he turned round to find him leaning against the doorjamb. Mycroft was always perfectly turned out, to the point of making everything around him shabby in contrast. Given that he was standing in _Greg’s_ kitchen, which was littered with the detritus of a single workaholic trying to drown his problems in alcohol, it looked very shabby indeed. “You’re not going to address the accusation that you decided to discontinue our friendship? Interesting.”

Thinking with a hangover had never been one of Greg’s strong suits, but surely to Christ it should be _Mycroft_ cutting _him_ off after the way he'd failed Sherlock, not the other way round. In the aftermath of Sherlock’s suicide, he hadn't wanted to expose himself to the other man’s cutting censure or ire, particularly given that he knew just how far Mycroft would go to deal with those who allowed his baby brother to come to harm. Granted, ignoring him probably hadn't been his brightest idea, especially after spotting the agents tailing him, but what had he been meant to do? Reaching the conclusion that there was nothing else for it, he decided that honesty was the only way forward and looked carefully at his own hands. “After what happened, I thought you’d want nothing to do with me and I didn’t really want to hear it from you in public.”

With an eloquent sigh, Mycroft crossed the kitchen to take the tea caddy from Greg’s shaking hands. “If that drivel is the result of you thinking, might I suggest that you forgo the endeavour in the future?” He put tea into the infuser that only he ever used and dropped it into an almost-clean mug. “Sherlock’s actions were his own. Why on earth would I blame you for them?”

Greg leant against the unit with his arms folded tightly across his chest and dropped his head back, blinking furiously. “It was my team that turned on him! I tried my best but I couldn’t protect him, and it drove him to…that! _Of course_ it’s my fault! If I’d seen what was happening sooner, or tried harder—“

“—Tell me, is this why you hid at the back of the funeral service? Why you’ve been avoiding me? Misplaced feelings of guilt based on absolute nonsense? Really, Greg, you’re better than this.”

“Fuck. Off!” Greg snapped, grinding the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes. His head was pounding abominably and his stomach roiling, tears barely held in check. “You weren’t there! He was at home, where he should have been safe, and I was sent to fucking arrest him! I tried to tell them it was all bullshit but they wouldn’t listen to me, they wouldn’t _fucking_ listen! And now they believe all that _shit_ about him, and he’s gone! But right, yeah, nothing for me to feel guilty about, not a _fucking thing_!”

The kitchen rang with silence when Greg finished with a rough sob. Eventually, he won back enough control to look at Mycroft, who had lost the baby brother he'd spent years protecting from addiction and the rest of the world, half expecting him to pull a pistol from a pocket, or a blade from his ankle. Instead, he blinked and said, “If you’re quite finished, pass me the milk.”

“What?” Greg asked after a long moment spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mycroft had never been given to displays of high emotion, but this was dispassionate even by his standards.

Mycroft sighed. “I asked for the milk. I don’t take it in tea but you do: unless you want it black, pass me the milk.”

Numbly, Greg opened the fridge and removed the bottle of milk. One look at it, however, told him that it was well past drinkable, and his queasiness spiked. “Think I’ll have it black, thanks.”

Eyes narrowed, Mycroft crossed the space between them purposefully and nudged Greg out of the way. Peering into the fridge, which, without the rather dubious milk, contained only a lump of cheese that looked like it was a day off growing legs and a bottle of beer, he breathed out heavily through his nose.

“It’s been three weeks since Sherlock jumped. Please tell me that you’ve consumed more than mouldy cheese and alcohol in that time.”

“Yeah, ‘course I have,” Greg said, neglecting to mention that his diet had largely consisted of whatever work’s canteen had left at the end of the day. “I don’t see what the contents of my fridge have got to do with anything, though.”

Mycroft closed the fridge with a snap. “Get dressed: we’re going for lunch.”

“Mycroft—”

“—That was not a suggestion. You failed to join me last night, you require a decent meal, and I require a few minutes’ conversation with you, so we will have lunch today. Your delightful ex-wife has taken your children to visit her friend so you have nothing better to be doing.” Mycroft placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders and bodily turned him to face out of the kitchen and into the living room. “I will not dine with a man who smells like that, however, no matter how… fond of him I may be, so shower before dressing.” He gave Greg a non-too-gentle shove in the direction of the door.

Confused, hung-over, and emotional, Greg did as he was told; arguing with Mycroft at the best of times was as productive as arguing with a brick wall. The shower was hot and refreshing, and as he washed and rinsed, and then washed again, he relaxed a little. If Mycroft blamed him for Sherlock’s death he definitely would have made it known by now. After all, for all that he could be manipulative and downright cruel, surely not even he would send his victim to shower before having him dealt with.

Towelling his hair off with one hand, Greg reached for his electric razor with the other, but Mycroft’s clear, “Leave that, Greg: it was your odour I objected to, not your stubble,” stopped him in his tracks.

“How did you know—”

“—Because I’m Mycroft Holmes,” came the characteristically modest response.

Greg left the bathroom with only a towel protecting his dignity, finding Mycroft sitting primly in the armchair, phone held to his ear with one hand and the fingers of his other hand drumming impatiently on the arm. “One moment,” he said crisply, looking up to direct his attention at Greg. “The clothes laid out on your bed, if you would be so kind. It’s been a stressful few weeks and I’m not sure that I could tolerate prolonged exposure to one of your other shirts.” He dismissed Greg with an elegant wave of his hand, and started talking to his PA again. “Definitely the full service, and a team of at least three. Allow no more than two hours, and order an immediate start, if you would be so good.”

Hoping like hell that Mycroft wasn't ordering a hit from his lounge, Greg did as he was told. His bedroom, in the cold light of day, was an absolute disgrace; had he found one of his girls’ rooms in such a state, they would have been grounded until Christmas. On the bed were a pair of his decent trousers and a shirt that had been a Christmas gift from Mycroft, as well as what he suspected was the last of his clean underwear. Even if he had been inclined to argue with the sartorial choices, it would have been pointless, Mycroft being perfectly capable of sending him back to his room to change if he failed to comply. Greg dressed quickly, and, in the interests of not offending the other man’s senses further, added a splash of his best aftershave for good measure.

Back out in the lounge, Mycroft was now off the phone and sipping at his tea, looking around the room with faint distaste, but soon redirected his attention to Greg. “Yes, much better.”

“Be a bit bad if you didn’t think so, wouldn’t it? You chose it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his empty mug on the coffee table. “We have a reservation at the Dorchester in half an hour, so we should leave now.”

Greg nodded and grabbed his keys, wallet and phone from the sideboard. “About last night, I’m sorry. I—”

“—Yes, we’ve established that you should only think with adult supervision,” Mycroft interposed as Greg locked the door. “You arrived at an erroneous conclusion based on a thought process addled by lack of sleep, over-indulgence in alcohol, and a frankly ludicrous view of my rationality. I hardly think we need to revisit the issue, do you?”

“You know, sometimes beating about the bush and kid gloves aren’t bad things,” Greg replied, face burning.

“I was under the impression that friends don't need to moderate themselves in each other’s company? I confess that you are the expert of the two of us on ‘normal’ social interactions, but—”

“—Yeah, yeah, all right. What I was trying to say is that I’m sorry. About…you know. It’ll never be enough, but I’m sorry.”

Mycroft’s driver, a tall, patrician man Greg had not seen before, opened the door for them, and Mycroft chivvied Greg into the vehicle with a put-upon sigh. “It is with your misplaced guilt that I take issue. Possibly I should have anticipated this reaction, but I confess that I have been somewhat…distracted in recent weeks, and I had believed you to be secure enough in our relationship - and sufficiently aware of the limits your own powers - that this situation would not have arisen.”

Greg stared out of the window as the car merged smoothly into the traffic. “It’s not misplaced: I let him down, badly,” he replied, feeling emotion rise again, guilt licking at him as hot as flames. “Besides, I remember what you did to that bloke he had stalking him back when he was in that shithole on Montague Street.”

“The situations are not even remotely comparable; you had no control over the events preceding my brother’s plunge from the roof, you did nothing to encourage that course of events, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. I understand your grief at the loss of a…loved one, but wallowing in self-inflicted guilt over it is idiocy, and, despite what Sherlock has told you over the years, you are not an idiot.”

Though it was Mycroft saying the word ‘idiot’, it was Sherlock’s voice Greg heard, and a sound somewhere between sob and laugh was wrenched from him. “I never thought I’d miss being called that, you know. I mean, sometimes I wanted to deck him for it, but God, I do.”

“Yes, well, enough of that. Grief will pull you into downward emotional spiral, which could be debilitating in many aspects of your life, quite apart from the physical maladies that can be attributed to it. Your recent disregard for your personal hygiene, for example, could be seen as a manifestation of—”

“—Have you been reading self-help books? Because I promise you, they’re all full of shit,” Greg cut in, briefly amused at Mycroft’s parroting of his former marriage counsellor.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Mycroft sighed and inspected the manicured fingernails of his right hand. “As you well know, emotional responses are hardly my area of expertise: I felt it necessary to seek assistance.”

Greg snorted, a reluctant smile quirking his lips. Something about the thought of _Mycroft Holmes_ consulting a self-help book for advice on providing comfort broke through his grief, at least temporarily. “Well, thanks for that. Really.”

Had he been slightly less hungover and more with it, Greg might have spotted the flash of satisfaction that crossed Mycroft’s expression, but he missed it entirely. “You’re welcome.”

Not sure what to say, Greg stared at his hands, then the privacy window, then Mycroft’s brogues, and then back out of the window. On top of his lingering hangover, pain at Sherlock’s loss, and the guilt that Mycroft’s words had done little to assuage, he was also feeling like a right tit for staggering out of the bedroom in nothing but his boxers, and had absolutely no idea how to bridge any of it. Eventually, Mycroft sighed and Greg turned to find his friend looking vaguely annoyed. “Conversations generally work better with more than one participant. Talking to oneself draws attention and, though I’m firmly of the opinion that a person talking sense to themselves is no less sane than a person talking nonsense to another, I’d rather stick with convention for the moment, if it’s all the same to you.”

That pulled a laugh from Greg and Mycroft looked pleased with himself. “That why Sherlock used to walk around with that skull?”

“That was more his fondness for Uncle Rudy than a desire not to be seen talking to himself. He always sought our uncle’s opinion before that of anyone else and we saw no reason for that to cease after his death.”

Greg stared at Mycroft for a long moment. “That’s your uncle’s...you’re joking, yeah?”

“Not at all; Uncle Rudy certainly had no further use for it, and it seemed churlish to refuse Sherlock such a simple comfort.” When Greg made no reply, Mycroft sighed and flicked non-existent lint from his trousers. “Now that I have your full attention, allow me to enlighten you as to the principal reason for which your guilt is misplaced: my brother isn’t actually dead. I had intended to tell you at your home once I was satisfied that it was secure, but can see that you’ll be no good for anything labouring under this misapprehension.”

It took far longer than it should have done for Mycroft’s words to register, for which Greg would later blame a combination of poor sleep hygiene, a hangover, and the fact that Mycroft had just claimed that _Sherlock was **not** dead_. His vision tunnelled until all he could see was Mycroft’s face and an odd whooshing sound echoed in his ears. “Not. Dead?”

“Very much alive, in fact. I haven’t heard from him since yesterday, when we agreed that it was time to make you aware of the situation, but he was in good health and spirits. This information is, of course, being shared with you, and _only_ you, in the strictest confidence.”

Given the emotional stress of the previous three weeks, it was hardly surprising that Greg went from shocked numbness to hot fury in the blink of an eye. “What do you mean, he’s not… _How_ is he not dead? There was a body! John saw it!” As Greg exploded, Mycroft sat calmly in his seat and barely twitched a muscle. “You...how could you? Of all the shit you pair of bastards have pulled over the years...I can’t even…I thought _something_ wasn’t right, but this…” he trailed off, thoughts racing too quickly for his brain to be able to turn them into words. Yes, there had been a few things that hadn't felt right in the aftermath, like the Holmes brothers’ parents not being at the funeral and Mycroft’s apparent lack of any emotional response chief among them, but Greg had put those down to Holmesian eccentricities and it hadn't even crossed his mind that Sherlock could still be alive.

“Have you finished? This conversation is not to leave the confines of the car, and we’ll be arriving soon.”

“You mean we’re actually going for lunch?” Greg asked, surprised. Given the nature of Mycroft’s disclosure, he'd thought that the other man just wanted him somewhere suitably secure to have the conversation and had used ‘lunch’ as a cover for getting him into the car.

“Yes, of course; I need you out of the flat so it can be properly secured, and our monthly meal seemed the perfect opportunity. I trust that this revelation should stop you from growing any more self-destructive in your habits, but you still need to eat,” Mycroft said, eyes sweeping Greg’s torso. “That shirt fitted you perfectly at Christmas.”

Greg stared at the other man and shook his head. “You can’t just drop something like that on me and then start talking about my clothes, Mycroft! He’s okay? Where is he? I’ve got so many questions—”

“—Of course you have, but we’re out of time. Let’s enjoy lunch and pick this up afterwards.”

“How can you just expect me to leave this and go eat lunch like everything’s normal?” Greg demanded, anger surging again in response to Mycroft’s apparent indifference.

“Because it is: Sherlock is alive and well, and we’re going to share our monthly meal.” The car came to a stop and Mycroft looked out of Greg’s window. “Here we are. Now, I’m afraid I must absolutely insist that we drop this until we’re back in the car,” Mycroft cautioned, and Greg reluctantly nodded his agreement.

The driver opened Greg’s door and the fresh air was a welcome relief after the close confines of such an intense journey. “Thanks,” he said, somewhat dazed, and climbed out in front of the imposing Dorchester. Early in their acquaintance, he'd thought that Mycroft was using dinner at such venues to demonstrate his superiority, to intimidate and push him out of his comfort zone. He had, of course, quickly realised that it was nothing of the sort, and that Mycroft Holmes was just a hedonist; he liked fine food, and fine things, and fine art, and was disinclined to compromise his own comfort.

“This wasn’t my first choice, but given the short notice it was the best I could do. The architecture is, of course, a magnificent example of the Art Deco movement, but I do wish that the place wasn’t so attractive to the dregs of the celebrity classes,” Mycroft mused disdainfully as they approached the grand main entrance, and it was a testament to the strength of their friendship that Greg now found the younger man’s snobbery endearing rather than rage-inducing, even when he was already furious with him. “How do you feel about afternoon tea?”

Greg grunted, because, _really_ , expecting him to think about anything other than the fact that Sherlock was alive was beyond the pale, but was saved the need to reply when a young, smartly-dressed woman approached with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. You have a table at The Promenade.”

Mycroft smiled charmingly. “I trust you received the instruction that we are to be as secluded as possible?”

“Yes, sir,” the woman replied with a knowing smile. “You can trust us to be discreet. This way.” She led across the lobby, heels clicking on the marble floor, and into The Promenade, which Greg had always thought looked like something out of Poirot. “You’re just here.”

‘Just here’ was a table in the far corner of the dining room between two pillars, and Greg dropped heavily into his seat. Still reeling from Mycroft’s news and desperate for answers, he came up blank every time he cast about for a subject that had nothing to do with the fact that _Sherlock was alive_. Fortunately, Mycroft was a consummate conversationalist and more than capable of discussing trivia at great length when the situation called for it; by the time they had just about finished their afternoon tea, he'd carried them through everything from both national and international politics, his main office’s malfunctioning printer, and an exhibition of vintage film props he had been given privileged access to, with a few tidbits about useless - though un-named - politicians thrown in for good measure. Not that Greg had really heard most of it, but he had, at least, managed to nod and make encouraging noises at the right moments, even if his tongue was slightly sore from the number of times he'd bitten it to keep forbidden questions in.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, sounding very much like it was not the first time, with a nudge to his right ankle.

“What was that?” 

“I suggested that we forgo drinks and take our leave, though I’m curious to know what that eclair did to deserve such mutilation.”

Greg glanced down at his plate and found that he had, indeed, reduced the last eclair to a creamy goo. “Well, it was giving me funny looks, wasn’t it?” he said, and though he was still angry and confused and slightly hungover, Mycroft’s small, genuine smile caused a flutter in his chest.

“We can’t have that, can we?” He raised his hand and summoned the waiter, who had never been far from their table throughout their afternoon tea, and requested the bill. “I trust you won’t mind me accompanying you home?”

“Too bloody right you are; try going anywhere else and see how far you get.” Greg dropped his re-folded napkin atop his plate. “You gonna take anything off me towards this?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Early in their acquaintance he had always tried to pay his share, despite it being more than he could really afford, but the money had always been back in his account by the next day.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Must you ask every time we dine together? I’ve been telling you ‘no’ since two thousand and five; what on earth makes you think it will be any different now?”

“Yeah, well, you might change your mind one day.”

The look Mycroft gave him spoke volumes. “Certainly not on this issue, I assure you.”

The waiter arrived and in short order the bill was paid and they were on their way, Greg on the alert for anyone watching them. “You’d better be bloody ready to give me answers, Mycroft,” he said in hushed tones.

“You have my word.”

Back out in the fresh air, with the promise of answers so close, Greg’s patience started to fray. “Right now your word means less than nothing.”

“Not here, Greg,” Mycroft chided, hurrying him towards the car, where his driver was lounging against the front passenger door. He straightened out of his slouch, flicked his cigarette into the grate and opened the door with a small smile.

Distractedly nodding his thanks, Greg ducked into the car and slid along the back seat, scarcely waiting until the door was closed behind Mycroft before barking, "Explain.”

“Before we get to that—”

“—No! I’ve just sat through fucking _afternoon tea_ after you told me that he’s alive without saying a fucking word—”

“—Yes, you did very well, but this is of the utmost importance. Can you answer me one question before I answer all of yours?” Greg fumed internally at being manipulated and had no doubt that Mycroft could read the anger in his face, but nodded in reluctant agreement. “Thank you. You claimed that you ‘knew that something wasn’t right’ and I need to know how. If anyone else is aware of this, or has any doubt, the whole operation could be in jeopardy.”

Greg stared at Mycroft, taking in the frown and the thin line of his lips, and scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. You and Sherlock always think you’re the only ones who can see stuff, don’t you? Well, guess what? It was _you_ that made me think something was off.”

“ _Me?" _Mycroft asked, and the incredulity in his voice fanned the flames of Greg’s anger.__

__“Yes, you! I know you, Mycroft, and you’re not that bloody hard to read.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes and waved a hand impatiently, urging Greg on. “Remember when Sherlock took that huge overdose back in oh-nine? When I called you from the hospital? Well, I saw you. At his bedside, I mean. I couldn’t take just sitting next to him, waiting for you to show up, so went for a coffee. When I got back to ICU you were already there. Back then you still just about had me sold on the whole ‘ice man’ thing, but that night was when I realised it’s a load of bullshit. I thought something was off with this because I saw you crying when he’d nearly done himself in, but barely a flicker of anything when he’d really done it.”_ _

__Mycroft sat back in his seat, patently impressed. “That was remarkably perceptive.”_ _

__“Yeah, believe it or not I was actually able to think for myself before you two graced me with your presence. Now, get the fuck on with it.”_ _

__“Are you aware that you swear much more when in a state of heightened emotion?” At Greg’s angry growl, Mycroft smiled apologetically. “Yes, perhaps not the time for such observations. Where would you like me to start?”_ _

__“’Isn’t actually dead’ would be a good place,” Greg snapped. “How the _hell_ is he not dead?”_ _

__“I’m afraid that I’ll need to give you a little background before we get to that, so bear with me.” A contemplative expression stole across Mycroft’s face before it cleared. “The intelligence community had long been aware of Moriarty, but, ah, dealing with him was not as easy as we would have liked because of the extent of his network’s reach. I did, however, observe that he had something of an obsession with my brother at quite an early stage. Between us, we decided that I would feed Moriarty information to tempt him into the open, and allow him to wage his campaign to damage Sherlock’s reputation—”_ _

__“—That’s great, but do you think you could get to the not dead bit?” Greg interrupted, hearing the urgency in his own voice._ _

__“Very well,” Mycroft assented. “Moriarty knew that Sherlock has strong…emotional attachments to a few people, and he used those attachments to orchestrate Sherlock’s ‘suicide’. He had assassins ready to act in the event that my brother did not die. Obviously, we took precautionary measures to ensure that nobody was in any real danger; none of you was ever actually aware of it, in fact. Moriarty killed himself, removing the possibility that we could induce him to call his assassins off, leaving Sherlock’s apparent death as the only viable option. We had, of course, planned for every eventuality, with a code word assigned for each. Sherlock, on realising how the situation was going to play out, alerted me and I had everything put into place. He jumped from the roof, onto a stunt landing—”_ _

__“—John _saw_ him! He was dead! How—”_ _

__“—We knew that Moriarty had found a man very similar in appearance to my brother in order to manipulate the Bruhl children. It was a simple matter of finding the body, since we knew that Moriarty would not have allowed him to live long beyond that deception, and using it as a substitute for Sherlock. John, initially, saw that body but was briefly incapacitated by a well-choreographed cyclist, giving Sherlock time to exchange places ready for inspection.”_ _

__Greg gave that time to sink in, staring out of the window without registering any of the passing London scenery. For three weeks, three long, painful weeks, he'd believed Sherlock dead, believed that he had failed him so badly that he had been driven to suicide, and now he was being told that it was all a Holmesian plot to deal with Moriarty. He wiped furiously at his eyes and addressed the door handle, unable to look at Mycroft. “For three weeks, three _fucking_ weeks, you let me think he’s dead. Let me think I’d—”_ _

__“—No, I truly hadn’t anticipated that you would blame yourself—”_ _

__“—That’s not the point, Mycroft!” Greg snapped, finally turning to look at him. “For God’s sake, _why_ did you let me think he was dead? Why? That’s…it’s…” he trailed off, not sure what it was, other than wrong and cruel, even by the standards of the Holmes brothers._ _

__“Brutally pragmatic? I assure you that we had no choice. It was vitally important that the key players believed Sherlock dead; the success of the entire scheme was contingent upon that. If there was any doubt, any at all, lives would have been lost and years' of work would have been wasted. It was only yesterday that I received confirmation that the key threats had been neutralised. Sharing the truth with you even _now_ is a risk; to have done so sooner was simply not possible.”_ _

__Not sure what to say - because, really, what _could_ he say to that? - Greg stared out of the window, trying desperately to process everything he had heard. As they turned onto his road he asked, “Can I see him? Or at least speak to him?”_ _

__“Not in the near future. He is…engaged in a very delicate operation and is not due to check in again until the twenty fourth, and even then I’m sure you can appreciate the difficulty of securing lines of communication.”_ _

__“ _Please_ , Mycroft. If he’s checking in on the twenty fourth, can I at least be there?” Greg implored, only distantly aware that he was begging; the need to at least hear his friend’s voice now that he knew he was alive was unexpectedly all-consuming._ _

__Mycroft’s expression softened and he nodded. “I’ll have Chloe make the arrangements. But I must ask you to understand that this will be the only occasion on which it can be allowed.”_ _

__Relief surged, forcing out some of the anger and guilt and grief, and Greg sagged into the seat. “Thank you.”_ _

__“Yes, well, all things considered it’s a small enough request.” Mycroft sounded uncomfortable in the face of Greg’s gratitude. “Ah, here we are.” The car came to a smooth stop outside the European mini-market Greg lived above, and the driver opened the door for them. “Thank you, Sheridan.”_ _

__The driver inclined his head with a murmured, “Sir,” and ducked back into the car._ _

__Digging the keys out of his pocket, Greg looked back at Mycroft who was staring at the mini-market beneath Greg's flat with utter disdain. “You coming in or do I need to arrest you for loitering with intent?”_ _

__“Very droll. Why must you insist on living here? I know you had to move quickly, but there was that lovely flat in Islington, and I told you several times that money was no object,” Mycroft said, joining Greg at the door._ _

__“Yeah, no object for you, maybe, but I’ve told you before that I’m not a charity case.”_ _

__Once inside, Greg immediately knew that something was off: the coats in the small hall at the bottom of the stairs were actually hanging up, rather than in a pile against the wall, and there was a distinct smell of cleaning products. His mind automatically went back to Mycroft’s telephone conversation, ordering the ‘full service’, and he dashed up the stairs already knowing what he would find. His living room was pristine, even to the point that the wonky abstract print on the back wall had been straightened, and poking his head into the small kitchen, he found the draining board gleaming, the sink free of pots, and the work surfaces crumbless for the first time in weeks. “For God’s sake, why?” he snarled._ _

__“I assure you that my domestic team are in no way related to your favoured deity.” Greg glared at Mycroft over his shoulder; that was a conversation he'd had with Sherlock many times and he really wasn't in the mood to revisit it with the elder brother. “I won’t apologise, Greg: this flat was verging on a health hazard.”_ _

__Greg grunted and opened his alcohol cupboard if today’s revelations didn't merit an afternoon drink he had no idea what would. “I spent three weeks thinking I’d driven Sherlock to suicide: doing the dishes wasn’t exactly my biggest concern. You know you’re an absolute bastard, don’t you?” He screwed the lid off the bottle of Glenfiddich and waved it in Mycroft’s direction. “Whisky?”_ _

__“Of course I am, but that’s not whisky,” came the reply as Mycroft pushed himself away from the doorjamb. “Do you have any further questions for me? Because I have a proposition for you, and I confess myself rather keen to discuss it.”_ _

__Greg was no Holmes but he was definitely seeing something…odd in Mycroft’s expression. “None right now, but don’t think this is the end of it. You can’t just drop something like that on me and think it’s all sorted after one chat.”_ _

__“Of course. If you find yourself needing to discuss it, visit either my flat or the office,” Mycroft said, approaching Greg, and there was _definitely_ something predatory in his expression._ _

__“Which one? The fake one or your bunker?” Greg asked, feeling unaccountably flustered. Yes, Mycroft was probably the most dangerous man in the country, but it had been several years since Greg had felt so close to intimidated by him._ _

__“My office is no more a bunker than this is whisky.” Mycroft took the bottle out of Greg’s hand and put it down on the counter. “But yes, I was referring to my main office. Chloe should be able to answer most of your questions in the event that I’m unavailable, and you know that I'll always make time for you if it’s at all possible.”_ _

__Standing as close as they were, Greg could smell Mycroft’s no doubt extortionately expensive aftershave and see the red tint to his fine eyelashes. “Mycroft, what—”_ _

__“Do you really need me to explain this? I’ve given you good news; you no longer need to grieve or avoid me, and we share a mutual attraction,” Mycroft cupped Greg’s left cheek and, with just the right pressure, scraped his jawline. “I do like your stubble.”_ _

__Greg made an involuntary noise; going from grieving to stunned to furious to relieved within the space of three hours had further impaired his already questionable ability to say ‘no’ to a Holmes, and his mind gleefully used the emotional stress as an excuse to take leave of its senses. “So, this proposition,” he murmured, lips close to Mycroft’s ear, “tell me about it.”_ _

__“Sex,” Mycroft replied bluntly, and Greg felt a thrill at the breathy quality of his voice. “’No strings sex’, I believe is the term. I have an existing…attachment to another man - who has no objection to what I'm proposing, I assure you - and you are in no way ready for a committed relationship, even if I was in a position to offer you one. I am confident that we could enjoy ourselves.”_ _

__Leaning back against the kitchen counter to put some space between them, Greg did his best to think with the brain in his skull and not his boxers. Sex with the man who was effectively his closest friend, and who, not at all long ago, he had been beyond furious with, was a crazy thing to be contemplating, but contemplating it he was. “What about this bloke of yours? You know how I feel about cheating and I won’t—”_ _

__As interruptions went, a kiss was definitely one of the better ones, and Greg found himself returning it despite himself. Mycroft was a _fantastic_ kisser, and very quickly hit every single bloody one of Greg’s hot spots. When it eventually came to an end, he found that he had the fingers of one hand wound into Mycroft’s fine hair, and the other hand grasping his left arse cheek, pulling him closer. “I wouldn’t put you in that position, Greg,” Mycroft breathed against his neck in _exactly_ the right spot to cause an eruption of gooseflesh. “My offer is very simple: sex with no strings attached. This will not alter our friendship and I will not have any other expectations of you.”_ _

__“Beyond the sex,” Greg replied, and, deciding that two could play at that game, pressed his right thigh between Mycroft’s legs, asserting enough pressure that the other man’s eyes fluttered closed. He knew little about having sex with men, other than the odd drunken fumble in club toilets before his marriage and a one night stand a few months back had taught him, but he _did_ know that pressure against a burgeoning erection was a good place to start._ _

__Mycroft shifted unsubtly against Greg’s leg, encouraging him to apply more. “Yes, beyond the sex. I take it from your lack of protest that you are amenable to my proposition?”_ _

__“Don’t think this means I’m not still fucking furious with you,” Greg replied, eyes dropping to Mycroft’s lips._ _

__“Of course you are, and rightly so.” Then, in a move that stole Greg’s breath, Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful, refined man he had ever met, gracefully sank to his knees. “Allow me to offer an apology.”_ _


End file.
